


Greetings to the New Brunette

by the_mad_shadow



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-27 07:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_mad_shadow/pseuds/the_mad_shadow
Summary: Patsy's life is perfectly fine, thank you very much. So what if her girlfriend dumped her in a letter? So what if the words most often used to describe are 'cold' or 'isolated'? She's fine. She's got her cigarettes, and her booze, and her baths, and her books. It's 2017. She's a strong, independent woman. She's fine.





	1. A Nurse's Life is Full of Woe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not British, not a nurse. But I love CtM and the Patsy-Delia dynamic. Also, Billy Bragg, whose songs inspired me.

_19 September, 2017_

_Patience,_

_There are nights here where I lie awake, listening to the cracks of gunfire in the distance. The desert doesn’t absorb sound exactly. It softens it, so that sometimes I feel like I’m going mad straining my ears for something that isn’t there. There’s so much to do here, so many people to help. And not just the locals._

_My soldiers come first, they_ must _come first. They are who I think about when I wake in the morning, and the last thought in my mind at night. And that is how it should be. But not for us. It’s hard to explain, if you’re not here seeing it, but everything and everyone I left behind feels so fake now, so selfish. I can’t believe the things I used to care about. And I can’t let myself be distracted any more from the fighting here by the energy I spend thinking of you, trying to get you to open up to me or let me in. I’m tired of having to fight tooth and nail for every inch that might be real, when everything here is real._

_I can’t do it any more._

_Emily_

If she were normal, she supposed that she wouldn’t be able to breathe. That was what all the movies and TV shows and books said about this kind of a situation. She should be sobbing, and spluttering, asking the universe why this was happening to _her_ of all people. Instead, she was… steady. Emily was just another in a long line of hurts, and she’d been through worse. To her, it felt more like wiping a chalkboard than ripping off a plaster; once the slate was clean, it was as though nothing before it had existed. No pain, no muss, no fuss. This was a blip in the bleakness that had been her day.

And, if she was being honest with herself, this was no surprise. This had been the first letter that she had received in a month, their phone calls going from steady, to intermittent, to nonexistent, until they felt nothing more than passing ships in the night. It was why she had been so glad to finally receive some post, before she had known what lay inside.

Fuck. She groaned internally, and stood up, stretching to work out the kinks that had built up in her back as she slouched over the letter, reading and re-reading. She needed a drink, a cigarette, and a warm bath. She picked up the phone and called Trixie.

 

* * *

 

_Nine hours earlier…_

If one were to ask her colleagues three words to describe Patience Mount, the responses would revolve around themes such as efficient, brusque, or talented. She was sharp under pressure: cool, calm, and collected. But at that moment, she was none of those things. Because Nurse Patsy Mount was _daydreaming_.

The letter was sitting among her things in the break area. She knew it was because that’s where she had left it. She liked having things tidy, each piece set away in its proper box. It made things easier. But this letter, this letter would not stay in its box, no matter how hard she tried. There she was, two hours into her shift, and instead of the practical, all that filled her brain was the thought of the words contained within the envelope, crisp even after its long travel. Sharp, tidy. Just like Emily. 

A cry of pain from a nearby room broke through her reverie and she hopped to, alert that there was a mother in need. Strong, confident footsteps carried her into Mrs. O’Connor’s room, and she eyed the distraught woman kindly, ready to put forward her skills in aid. All thoughts of the letter were forgotten as she examined the woman, determined to set right what she could.

“Nurse, I want the drugs! All the drugs! SO MANY DRUGS! Gimme ‘em NOW!” 

At approximately four o’clock in the morning, Mrs. Helen O’Connor had awoken to a terrible pain in her back, her pajama bottoms soaked through. After rousing her husband, they had quickly made their way to the hospital. Mr. O’Connor was now standing to the side of his wife, right hand crushed in a vice-like grip, looking dazedly around the room while his wife screamed.

“Mr. O’Connor, I have to _examine_ your wife now.”

Patsy was loath to kick a supportive partner out of the room, but every so often there would be a fainter, and she had no intention of creating more patients today. For his part, Mr. O’Connor looked to his wife for her answer, and the murderous look Patsy saw was enough to inform her that he was staying put.

“Alright, Helen, I need to check how dilated you are. You’re going to feel some pressure.” She draped her field as to afford the woman some semblance of privacy, wincing as a new shriek of discomfort came her way.

“‘Some pressure my arse, nurse!” Patsy made what she hoped was a sympathetic face as she withdrew her hand and stripped off her gloves, straightening. 

“Helen, I’m just going to pop round to the central station and get Dr. Jackson in here to administer the medication.” She paused, watching as Mrs. O’Connor worked her way through another contraction, wheezing slightly as her husband coached her breathing.

Something tickled at the back of her mind, an inkling of a faded memory from her training placement. She shoved it back down and hurried to send a page to Dr. Jackson, only to turn around and smack into the man in question. He grabbed her to hold her steady.

“Patient requesting an epidural in room 5.” She glanced down at his hand on her arm and pulled away with slightly more force than necessary. She did not enjoy looking like a fool.

“Lead the way, Nurse Mount.” The doctor’s jovial response only served to further grate on her. Jackson was forever a boy trapped in a man’s body, equal parts endearing and obnoxious. She turned on her heel and walked as primly as she could to the medical cabinet, taking care to pay the doctor no mind as she punched in the required medication and her access code. 

She re-sterilized her hands as she entered and snapped on a pair of fresh gloves, passing the vial and a clean syringe to the doctor robotically, already mentally running down the rest of the procedure.

“Alright, Helen, you’re going to feel–"

“If you say ‘some pressure,’ I swear to Jesus, doctor, I will strangle you when I can move again!” Mrs. O’Connor blushed and wheezed again while Patsy chuckled internally. Being on the labor and delivery ward provided the grandest threats.

Dr. Jackson shot a cheeky grin at their patient to show that no offense had been taken, before nodding to Patsy, who gently rolled their patient so that they could begin.

“Fuuuuuck me, that stings!” From experience, Patsy knew that the local anesthetic had been injected, and she reached for the needle, tubing, and medication she had set aside earlier. 

“Helen, I need you to focus on me, can you do that?”

“The pretty woman who makes me feel like even more of a beached whale that I already am…” She paused, gasping for breath as another contraction came on, clearly more powerful than the last.

Patsy waited, timing how long it lasted. Above them, the monitors registered a slight spike in activity, the pulsing rising as the pain got worse. Then back down. Sixty-three seconds. She glanced up again, and felt that same tickle. Something bothered her, though she could not have said why.

“Mrs. O’Connor, I need you to try and be as still as possible. Grab Nurse Mount with your other hand if needed. Show that pretty girl what you’re made of.” Once the suggestion had been made, Patsy had no choice but to proffer herself as a stress tool.” It was over quickly, and she managed to extract herself with minimal bruising or scratches.

“You should start feeling the effects in about ten or twenty minutes, and Nurse Mount will be by to check your blood pressure and baby’s heart rate every few minutes to make sure everything is as it should be.” He flashed a smile, then exited the room, his white coat swishing behind him as he left in a cloud of authority.

“Thank you, Nurse.” Mr. O’Connor’s voice was quiet and even. She nodded her acknowledgement, preferring to stay unattached. She had other patients to check on.

Six hours and dozens of checks later, Mr. O’Connor suddenly sprinted out of his room.

“Nurse, nurse, she can’t breathe!” Patsy sprinted over, to find Mrs. O’Connor gasping for air, monitors jumping to abnormal rhythms. She pressed the emergency call button, popping her stethoscope into her ears to listen, trying to discern between the external and internal sounds. 

Dr. Jackson came running in, nearly crashing into the supply cabinet as he rounded the corner at top speed. 

“Absent breath sounds on the right upper; normal breath sounds on right lower, left upper and lower; muffled cardiac sounds.” She rattled off. There was something familiar about this. “Pulse elevated, oxygen levels going down.”

“Check her legs, Nurse Mount.”

And then it hit her. Ophelia Ryalt, diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism while twenty weeks pregnant with twins. Patsy had been in her third week of placement on the maternity ward. They had managed to save the mother – barely – and the twins were now four years old and making a nuisance for their pediatrician. She moved briskly into the hall and grabbed a Doppler machine, her face belying nothing of what was happening in the room. 

She scanned the right leg first, then the left, revealing nothing out of the ordinary. But it couldn’t be that nothing was wrong. She looked her patient over, head to toe. _There_. A dark purple lump on the left bicep. Gesturing towards it, she kept her voice calm, so as not to elicit panic when she asked her question.

“How long has your wife had this bruise, Mr. O’Connor?”

“I… I’m not sure. Maybe a couple of weeks? But I couldn’t say for certain. Helen wasn’t even sure where she got it from.” 

She scanned the area just to be sure, but she already knew what Dr. Jackson was going to say. Sure enough, a partial clot was lodged in the artery, looking as though a piece had gone missing very recently.

“Nurse Mount, alert the cardiothoracic surgeon on call and the O.R. Tell them that we have a priority patient in need of an embolectomy and a Caesarean.” She left to do as she had been instructed, Dr. Jackson’s brief words of explanation to Mr. O’Connor fading from hearing as she went.

She sagged into a chair in the central station, watching as the doctor and Nurse Crane wheeled Mrs. O’Connor to the elevator. They had caught it in time, they hoped. The baby would be fine, they hoped. Meanwhile, she was left spinning, trying to find her way back to equilibrium. She felt a soft tap on her shoulder, and she looked up to find Nurse Franklin. As usual, the blonde looked glamorous, making Patsy feel decidedly lumpy and unpolished in her present state.

“Oh dear, Patsy, you look quite done in.” While other nurses, or doctors even, may have used this as a slight, Patsy knew it was offered as truth and sympathy. “Why don’t you go and organize supplies? It’s nearly time for change of shift, and I won’t have you getting caught up in another emergent case.”

Patsy cracked a smile. For all that they were the same age, Trixie Franklin was the mother hen, and everyone knew it.

“If you’re sure…” 

“Of course I’m sure, now go!” With a ‘thank you’ and a quick squeeze, Patsy left to reorganize and renew supplies. Rather than find the work menial, it was comforting, allowing her to structure her thoughts, erect her shields while she counted down the minutes until the end of her shift. When it came, she hurried – not fled, Patience Mount had never fled anything a day in her life – to collect her things from the break room and leave.

The letter fell out and hit the ground as she grabbed her bag. She had forgotten all about it. Better to take it home where she could read in peace, away from the prying eyes and gossips that pervaded the hospital. She slipped her jacket on and walked out of the hospital doors into the cool London night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop me a line if you liked it or you didn't here or on tumblr at twomeerkatsinatrenchcoat. Much internet research went into this, but if you think I can do better, or want to beta, let me know!


	2. Blood of the Lamb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When last we left off, our dear Patience Mount had just been broken up with via letter. The nerve!

It was odd, Patsy supposed, but waking in the arms of a stranger was becoming almost routine. She could count on one hand the number of nights that she had spent recently in her own bed and still have fingers left to spare. At least this time, she’d had the good fortune of stirring before her latest conquest. _Norah? Nicole? It certainly started with an N._ She rolled, swung her legs over, and made to stand. She was upright for all of three seconds before her knees gave way.

Thump.

The carpeted floor muffled the sound. That was, at least, something to be grateful for. The room spun and she willed herself into a crawl, grabbing her clothes as she slowly made her way out of the bedroom. She was dressed and out the door in decent time, with only a small feeling of guilt as she hear the lock click behind her. It disappeared as she rode the lift down, each floor distancing her from it just a tad more. By the time she was on the ground level and into the lobby, her mind was focused on other things. Chief among them being figuring out _where the fuck she was_ and finding her way home.

She stepped outside, immediately wishing that she hadn’t. Even in pale light of the early hours, the brilliance of the clear sky was too much for Patsy. The drummer would stop playing in her head eventually, but for now, she would have to find her own ways to mute him. She lit a cigarette eagerly, using the rhythmic puffs to find her balance. She was _never_ drinking this much again (alright she was, but it felt nice to promise it to herself for the time being).

Ten minutes later, Patsy was slouched over in a cab, desperately trying not to be sick. Of all the times for her motion sickness to kick in, it would have to be then. Emily had teased and teased her about it after an unfortunate episode involving a drive to Brighton, a runaway cow, and ten quid worth of Canada Dry. After that, Patsy had insisted on being the one in the driver’s seat every time, even if she had to forgo alcohol to do so. She shook her head to clear the memory, instantly regretting the decision as the cab floor swam before her eyes. She hadn’t thought of Emily in nearly two weeks.

Emily of the dusky blonde hair, green eyes, and wry smile. Emily who understood the demands of her job and asked no more of Patsy than what she was willing to give. It had been easy, at first. Short nights spent together in a ball of passion, wearing each other out until dreamless sleep fell over them.

Patsy Mount had thought herself to be self-reliant, confident in who she was. But she had craved Emily’s attention like a drug, each moment feeding into her addiction, her body relishing in the idea that _she_ was worth time even as her mind refused to let go. It scared her, still, to think that she had become so dependent on someone else. So she had stepped back, throwing up ten foot walls, dodging phone calls and picking up extra shifts when she knew Emily had something planned. Patsy had wanted distance; the Army had seen to that and then some.

The cab slowed and she chanced a glance outside, spying the familiar blue archway and grey painted brickwork that denoted her building. Even in her most drunken state she could always remember to look for ‘Archie Grey,’ as Trixie called it. She tossed a couple of notes to the cabbie as she made her exit, the effort to ask for change seeming too great. Shielding her eyes from the bright rays that threatened to make her head explode, she ducked inside.

All things considered, she should have won a gold medal for making it to her flat in one piece. Several feats of high caliber gymnastics had been achieved to get her up the stairs after the lift had taken too long. Damn her for having a flat on the top floor. Whose brilliant idea had that been, anyway? She had been forced to stop halfway up for a breather, leaning her head against the wall to absorb some of its cold and steel herself for the rest of the journey.

A rummage for her keys had proved useless several times over, and she frustratedly spilled various knicknacks out of her bag before remembering that she had used her fob to swipe into the building. The keys were promptly located in her pocket. Then she was home, her couch waiting for her temptingly, its proximity too good of an invitation for her to pass up. A couple hours of a nap would do her good. She barely managed to set an alarm before her body gave in to the soft plushy goodness beneath her.

* * *

 

“Late night?” Trixie teased as Patsy entered the break area in search of desperately needed coffee. The nap had done her a world of good, easing her headache to make it bearable even with the sounds of the hospital and leaving her thoughts a lot clearer than before. But still, there was only so much it could do to erase what she had done.

“More like early morning.” She shot back. Trixie’s eyebrows raised slightly as she made an appreciative noise.

“Now you _have_ to spill the details!” Though not inclined towards the ladies, Trixie could still appreciate a good time. At the moment, she was going through a dry spell, and picked as many opportunities as possible to remind Patsy that she was living vicariously.

“Beatrix Rose Franklin, a lady _never_ kisses and tells.” She tutted in mock disapproval.

“That’s right, Patience Elizabeth Mount, a _lady_ never does.” Patsy rolled her eyes and tossed her jumper at Trixie. The blonde gave a muffled ‘oof’ as she caught a mouthful of fabric.

They had developed an easy, bantering rapport almost immediately, Trixie’s constant playfulness and excitement balancing Patsy’s penchant to brood. Four years they had known each other, providing support both inside and outside the hospital walls. Trixie was the nearest thing Patsy had to a best friend, and Patsy would have sworn that fate had brought them together. If she believed in that sort of thing.

She succeeded in locating a packet of instant just before the start of her shift and chugged it, mercilessly forcing her body to accept the caffeine. The taste was vile and she gagged, but at least it was in her system. Labouring mothers and their complications could come at her however they liked: she had fortified herself and would not be stopped.

Swing shifts had always been her favorite. They started late enough to (usually) allow for her to make something of her day, and ended early enough that she could still go out for a drink or two. Or five, as the case had been last night. The mothers had been kind today, somehow deciding as a group that today was simply not the day to have children. Patsy realized it was Halloween near hour five, causing Trixie to break down in a fit of giggles as she suggested that no one wanted the responsibility of a child with _that_ birthday.

With an hour to go, she sat herself in the central station and started checking and double checking that all electronic charts had been updated properly. Everyone on the ward was meticulous in their work, but it never hurt to give the files a last look before turning them over. Before she knew it, Sister Turner, the night shift charge nurse, was nudging her out of the chair to take stock of the patients.

In the end, she hadn’t used much of the energy the coffee had given her. Actual sleep was what she needed most at that moment, but her nerves fizzled animatedly. A nightcap wouldn’t hurt. Trixie begged off: with her mother visiting tomorrow, waking up with the slightest hint of a hangover was probably not a good idea, even if she was 27 and it was Halloween. They split ways at the doors, Trixie heading to Euston to catch the Tube and Patsy to her favorite haunt, cigarette in hand.

Hare’s Heart was a tired-looking pub in an even more tired-looking building, complete with peeling green paint and a sign that rattled whenever the wind blew a little too hard. To most passersby, the dusty windows and muted lighting gave the whole facade an unfriendly feel. This was not helped by the horror-skewed Peter Rabbit decorations haphazardly put up in honor of the holiday.

She had accidentally stumbled upon the pub one evening in her first year of university while exploring. The others in her group had rejected it offhand, but she had gone back on her own. Soon, she was using it as a revision space, pouring over theory and medical images while she munched on chips. In those early years of her life in London, it had not been uncommon for her to be woken by a bartender ringing for last call, packing her books as the final pints of the evening were poured.

Tonight, there was a new group of women among the regulars. They were laughing wildly about something or other as Patsy walked through the door, the noise so infectious that she felt the ghost of a smile tug at her lips. The leader was a woman with a shock of unruly candy floss blue hair, currently engaged in telling whatever story it was that had caused the surge of volume.

She turned away to the bar and nodded at the bartender, who was already pouring her a pint of the house draught.

“Evenin’, Patsy. Will ya be wan’in ta’ star’ a tab?” She shook her head and passed him a couple of pounds in reply.

“Enjoying the holiday? I thought the Peters a nice touch, if a little startling to the unaware.” John was usually the one responsible for such antics.

“No’ tha’ ya would know anythin’ abou’ touchin’ pe’ers, now would ya?” He flashed her a cheeky grin as she flapped her hand at him. It had been a long time since he had said anything that made her choke on her beer.

“My word, do you talk to all your customers like that? If only they knew...” She said the words freely, knowing that he would take no offence.

“Wha’ me? Never!”

John was a friendly bloke, with two kids and a wife who minded his long hours, but appreciated how well management treated him. She knew because he had told her so several times in the years that she had known him. They exchanged Christmas cards and swapped dirty jokes, and she had watched as his hair had made the transition from black to its current salt-and-pepper.

She settled into an easy silence, content to sip and absorb the atmosphere as John tended to other customers.

“Excuse me,” the voice came from Patsy’s right, “could I get another pint of the house brew?”

At an ordinary pub, the request would have been innocuous, and Patsy would have been content to down her drink and leave. But the Hare’s Heart specialty draught was interesting to say the least, and that she knew of, it had never been ordered by anyone who was not a regular. An acquired taste, just like her.

She turned slightly to appraise the woman next to her, lifting her glass to her mouth in an attempt at subtlety. The first thing she noticed was not the shoulder length chocolate brown hair or the deep turquoise eyes, though she certainly kicked herself for that later. It was the fact that the woman was wearing what appeared to be a onesie in bright red, complete with red gloves. Patsy suspected that she was even wearing red trainers. The woman turned to make her way back to her table, and Patsy saw a 'Thing 6' sign firmly attached to her chest before their eyes met. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks at being caught. The brunette opened her mouth to say something.

The sound of tyres skidding and windows smashing beat her to the punch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely satisfied with the ending, but it was too good to pass up. Also, I would pay good money to see the Hangover Olympics.
> 
> Chapter title is because a) I felt the lyrics matched but, more importantly, b) I LOVE PUNSSSSSSS.
> 
> As always, feel free to say hi here or on Tumblr at twomeerkatsinatrenchcoat.


End file.
